Breaking Horses
by Howlingmojo
Summary: Life in the Palace of Justice as seen through a gypsy's eyes. A gypsy with dirty feet and a conflicted heart.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Whatever it is that La Esmeralda, Queen of Gypsies would expect, this certainly isn't it. Her capitulation to Judge Claude Frollo and subsequent captivity has her at first thinking that she has exchanged one blazing pyre for another. She may be all talk and loud noises sometime, but she knows she is not at all ready to meet her Maker. Thus, life with Claude Frollo is in the end the only real valid option.

She remembers shouting out at him as the flames lick the dry timber at her feet. Never again can she think fire crackles _merrily_. The edge of her shift is smoldering and her naked feet are already blackening with soot. Her throat closes at the heat.

It's all a jumble of images after that. She remembers someone leaping forward, sudden smoke as the fire is extinguished. Loud hissing reaches her ears. A mad jumble of voices clamoring for attention as she feels the ropes that bind her fall away. Somebody (Frollo? ) wraps his arms around her and she is lifted away from the smoking wood. Tenderly, as if she is made of spun glass. After that she just closes her eyes and lets the tears fall.

And so she now finds herself an unwilling inhabitant of the Palace of Justice. The only building in Paris arrogant enough to have its back permanently turned towards the beauty of the Notre Dame. Esmeralda remembers herself being ushered in, more voices raised in various levels of excitement ( and is that anger? ) and a brisk walk through long, dark corridors. Her ear pressed against the sound of a thudding heart. Almost lulling her into a state of catatonia.

She is dropped, rather unceremoniously on a stool. When she dares to open her eyes, she's just in time to see the back end of a long red sash, and witness the slamming of the door.

Alone.

Unexplainably, her stomach chooses that moment to announce its emptiness to her. The moment is so absurd, so _mundane _that she barks out a hysterical laugh at the sound. After a brief pause the laughter gives way to heaving shoulders and choked up sobs until finally she drops her head and lets her grief get the better of her. Hot tears glide down her dirty cheeks.

It is at this moment that Claude Frollo chooses to reenter the room. He has discarded his chaperon, leaving his hair oddly ruffled. He looks almost human in that moment. In his hands he carries a bowl of what looks to be steaming water. Pieces of cloth are slung over his forearm.

He closes the door with his foot and turns to look at her. Only to have his eyes widen almost comically as he takes in the tear tracts standing out on her face.

He crosses the room quickly and stands before her with an inscrutable look on his face. Stooping quickly to place the bowl in front of her feet, he then reaches out and softly touches the evidence of her distress.

His fingers are cold, she notes. His thumb comes up and softly he wipes the pad of his thumb across her cheek, removing the smears.

Dimly she knows what must come next. She knows the stories as well as any other young women would. She knows what happens when a man and a woman are left alone in intimate circumstances. This is the deal she has made, she steels herself. This is the devil she will have to lie with in order to ensure the safety of her people. Her life in exchange for theirs. Oh, _Phoebus._

Knowing somehow that it is important to meet her personal demon on even ground, she raises her eyes to his and their eyes lock. She tries to read his eyes and is shocked at the blazing fire that she sees gazing back at her. His heavy lidded eyes glitter with unspoken emotions. Frightened at what she sees burning in his eyes she closes hers and quietly, stiffly awaits her fate. This is the man that burned half the city of Paris to the ground, in his zeal to get to her, she reminds herself! Brace yourself, Gypsy queen.

She hears the rustling of his robes and grits her teeth at what must come next.

The next thing she knows, she nearly jumps out of her skin as she feels those long, _cold_! fingers close gently around her foot. And as she peeks through her eyelashes, she can make out his figure before her.

_Kneeling_ on the ground. The great ominous bat Frollo on the floor, _kneeling before her_. Before her feet. His eyes focused on her dirty feet. Frollo reaches for the cloth floating in the bowl, and after wringing it out softly, moves it over her feet, beginning to wipe them gently.

She struggles not to jerk away as his fingers hold her in a firm but gentle grip, the cloth moving over her feet in a soothing rhythm. Esmeralda feels her heart hammering in her throat. What game is Frollo playing?

His hands leaves her foot briefly, to wring out the dirty cloth. Slowly the clear water turns murky. His hands, now slightly warmed by the heat of the water, reach again for her foot, continuing their slow torture.

He leaves no part untouched. Meticulously he cleans off every small bit of her foot, moving gently between her toes. Now she does try to jerk away, huffing softly.

"That tickles!" She exclaims, stifling her girlish squeak.

She can tell he smiles at that, even though his features are obscured by shadows. He looks up at her, piercing her with his gaze. He places her clean foot softly on the floor. And without breaking their eye contact, opens up his hand and slowly gestures for her other foot.

A small voice in her urges her to give him what he wants. Only because this treatment he has bestowed upon her so far has been… confusing enough to keep her off balance. Another voice, sounding suspiciously like Clopin, rails at her, shouting to plant her dirty foot in Frollo's face and make a mad dash for the door. The speed at which she stifles that voice startles even her.

Knowing not to back down from a challenge she lifts her dirty foot slowly into his waiting palm. Frollo hums a little at this, pausing briefly, before he continues his ministrations. Swiping his fingers over her strong foot, mapping her instep and the calluses on her sole. Fingers linger briefly over a small scar caused by stepping into a shard of glass when she was just a small girl.

He dips the rag in the water and the same thorough care is given to her other foot.

All too soon he is finished. She feels him pulling on her big toe softly, as if to signal the end before he leans back to clean and dry his hands on a dry piece of cloth. Resting back on his haunches, long fingers folded demurely in his robed lap, he gives her the once over. The only thing Esmeralda can do is stare back.

_This is the man that burned Paris for you_

After a long moment, he rises, knees audibly creaking. He smirks at that, eyes never leaving her face. Suddenly he turns away, making for the door. He yanks it open and barks a few terse words at an unseen person behind the door. The sound of clanging silver wear is heard briefly before Frollo opens the door completely. A maid ducks under his arms, in her hands a tray with a small bowl of something steaming and a plate of what appear to be cold cuts. The smell of food fills Esmeralda's nostrils and she has to bite back a moan of hunger. For a moment Frollo's eyes snap back to Esmeralda's seated figure. He waits for the servant to back out obediently before backing out completely as well, closing the door completely behind him.

Leaving Esmeralda once more alone.

She makes quick work of the food. As she finishes her last bite her eyes drift back to the bowl with murky liquid on the floor. There it sits, innocently. If she didn't have that evidence of the past events, she wouldn't believe what she just experienced. She swallows confusedly. What has just happened?

Placing her tray on the floor she stands up and pads over to the furthest window, her mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts.

And as sudden as that, she comes to a startling realization. The entire time they were alone, the entire time he touched her, stirred something in her…_confused _her… He has done so without uttering a single word!

That realization rocks her to the core. Feeling as if an idea has just been born and is threatening to burrow its way aggressively out through her throat and mouth, she swallows hard. And again.

_This is the man that burned Paris for you_

If he didn't speak to her at all just now, then how come, she mentally cries, that _so much_ has just been said…

By the light of sputtering candles, Esmeralda sits down again, rocking slowly. Her mind ill at ease.


	2. Chapter 2

After all that initial excitement, life picks up it pace again and after a full two weeks have passed Esmeralda finds herself frankly _bored_. Every morning as the copper sounds of the bells of Notre Dame muster her from her slumber, she is visited by two female servants. One of them is an old toothless crone and the other one the same round cheeked girl that brought her supper the first day. They never speak to her and she begins to suspect them mute.

Another discovery she makes very early on is that she isn't locked in her chambers. The elation of that discovery however soon is replaced by exasperation as she finds herself shadowed everywhere she ventures. Oh, they (she is certain there is more than one person tailing her) make sure they are never seen, but she has no illusions that her every move is being monitored and reported to their master.

After a while she starts testing their resolve and makes for the front gate. The front gates are yawning, maw wide open. Behind them the city of Paris beckons. She quickens her step, heart in her throat. She can already smell the street, wet with recent rain. The rains that have come and put a final end to the last smoldering fires of Frollo's mad inferno. She hears the workmen shouting, the sounds of hammers striking iron, and wood being chopped. Already the city of Paris rises up from her ashes, like a reluctant phoenix. If only she has half of that resilience, Esmeralda sighs as she quickens her pace.

But before she can make that final mad dash for freedom, consequences be damned!... Two guards step from behind the edge of the gate. In what appears to be a rehearsed movement they turn inwards and bar her exit by crossing their halberds together. The noise of grating metal cuts her deeply and she flinches. But what disturbs her even more is the determination in the eyes of the guards. And the damned _pity_ when they make her turn back from whence she came.

So she backtracks all the way to her quarters, almost looking forward to the tongue lashing she surely is about to receive from her elusive captor. Some excitement at last! Nothing like a good fight the stifle the utter boredom she feels. She'll show him not to ignore her!

But she is to be sorely disappointed. Waiting for what seems hours she realizes that he isn't going to come. He has ignored her yet again. Stewing in her own rage again. Oh, those damned unrelenting walls!

Where is he? She asks herself. This was not at all how she thought her new life as… a kept woman, for lack of a better word, would be like at all. Not what she imagined at all. Promptly she clamps down on where her horrible imagination _does_ take her. What she thinks does fit the scenario of the woman locked in the tower by a nefarious sorcerer.

No. It simply does not do to torture oneself with might be's and other…strange, unbecoming scenarios. Heaven help her.

Esmeralda decides that she hates being bored. But what she hates even more, is being ignored. Even if she being ignored by the most fiendish man in the whole of France. And the problem is she knows that he knows that she can't stand not being the center of attention.

_Where is he?__ Damn him._

Another week passes before she is woken up early in the morning by the sound of voices drifting through the corridor. Her nights as of late have been filled with disturbing visions and vivid dreams, and more than once she wakes up suddenly, struggling to escape her sweat soaked sheets, gasping for breath.

Her ears prick up as the soft voices continue their conversation, growing slightly louder as she hears them pass by her door. They halt their conversation briefly, but as their voices drift further away she can suddenly make out a low baritone she hasn't heard in over three weeks. Esmeralda is promptly utterly disgusted with herself for the way her heart jumps into her throat and the slight tightening feeling in her belly. All that at the sound of a _voice_, for God's sake. She really must be starved for attention if he has that effect on her. Ridiculous.

But fed up with being ignored as she is, she swiftly dresses herself. Throwing her cloak over her shoulders, she softly opens the door and slips through.

It doesn't take her long to catch up with the voices as she winds her way down to the ground floor. Through courtyards and poorly lit hall ways she follows them until suddenly the unmistakable smell of _horse_ fills her nostrils.

Of course. The stables.

More voices are heard. Swiftly she moves back in the shadows, pressing herself flat against the dark wall, praying not to get noticed. She shifts closer to the stable doors, hoping to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond.

Frollo sounds tired, she thinks. His tone of voice is flat as he orders his stable hands out. She hears a small boy close by make a moue of disappointment, before he too is ushered out by the older men. As they trudge single file past her ill chosen hiding place, the young boy suddenly swings his head in her direction and locks gazes with her. He gasps softly drawing the attention of two other man. Their backs straighten, white of their eyes showing clearly in the darkness. It almost looks like fear. Eyes locking on them, she silently beseeches them not to give her away. The eldest man then grabs the startled boy by the scruff and drags him along, muttering softly under his moustache that _he didn't see nothing and that he doesn't want no trouble_. She notices that he leaves the stable door slightly ajar. The sweet man.

Esmeralda slowly releases her pent up breath.

Safe. For the moment. The game continues.

She creeps on, putting her weight on the old door and slowly opening the crack further. And edges in.

She is met by silence. Most stalls are filled with horses in various states of alertness. A huge bay flicks his ear at her and promptly ignores her for the hay he has been provided with. Other horses doze softly. Dust motes dance in the air. At the far end she sees two stall doors opened, the stables empty. All is quiet, apart from the soft crunching sounds the eating horse makes.

All is far too quiet.

Esmeralda notices the far stable door to the courtyard and combat training fields wide open. Curiously she edges her way through it. And promptly freezes at the sight that meets her eyes.

At the far end of the sandy field she can see the thin form of Frollo approaching what appears to be a skittish young black horse. Never walking in a straight line, he chooses to circle the animal, his gaze never leaving the nervous young stallion. Always keeping their eyes locked. Slowly they move around each other in the gray morning light, a little dance of push and pull. A slow dance of Man and Beast. Thin rays of pale sunlight back-lights them both, making steam rise up and curl upwards from their bodies.

Even Esmeralda can see that although the horse is far from grown, it is already a fair size. It promises to be every bit as intimidating as Frollo's own horse when he's fully grown.

The horse is badly shaking, rivulets of sweat standing out on its gleaming skin. Its ears are pressed flat against his neck. Even from her vantage point she can see the whites of the beast's eyes.

She creeps closer, enthralled by the sight before her. Luckily the shadows conceal her form.

Frollo has exchanged his usual robes for a far more form fitting ensemble. He is dressed in a thin white frock with an old purple hosier underneath. He has rolled up his shirtsleeves. Taut, wiry muscles roll under his pale skin. Like the horse he too is covered in grime and sweat, the thin shirt clinging to his back, the white almost translucent against his pale skin.

_Who is this man? _

She creeps closer still, not paying heed to the soft rustling sounds her bare feet make as she brushes through the undergrowth. As she watches the spectacle that is Frollo and his young horse, she fails to notice a looming shadow creeping closer.

Before she knows it, she suddenly stiffens as she feels an enormous gust of hot, fetid air hit the back of her neck. Panic grips her belly and a startled yelp escapes her before she can clamp down on it. Who?

Oh.

_**Two**__ open stable doors._

Cursing herself for a fool she whips around, only to stare down the red nostrils of Frollo's gargantuan horse. His _current_ horse.

They stare each other down, Esmeralda with her heart hammering in her throat, the horse with its eyes narrowed to slits, lips pushed back to expose huge yellow teeth. It then shakes it head, almost whipping her with its long black mane. Flattening its ears it slowly lowers it massive head until the tip of its nose reaches the apex of her thighs.

Oh. Wha.. oh! The sheer nerve of that demonic beast! Fiend! The monster pushes its nose into her…lap..and inhales. And promptly pushes harder, leaving Esmeralda scrambling for her balance.

Apparently satisfied with its humiliating inspection, the horse turns away from her and slowly trots off towards the far end of the field, its mocking neigh a parting shot. Measured and found wanting.

_The beast, so much like its monstrous master_, she fumes while dropping down on all fours. She struggles with herself to bring her laborious breathing back under control, swallowing convulsively to try and moisten her mouth. Finally looking up, she sees that the beast has joined its master. The old horse flicks its head towards the yearling and they communicate briefly with outstretched necks and some nips, the young horse visibly relaxing. Frollo reaches out and softly tugs the old horse on its manes. The horse stretches its neck and butts him softly on the shoulder, earning itself a chuckle.

Frollo bends and with one hand picks up a leather bridle. Allowing the yearling to sniff it cautiously he twists and with a deliberate movement slides the leather straps over the horse's head, past its twisting ears. The young horse whinnies and tries to backtrack, only to have its movement hindered by the rope tied to the bridle. Frollo diverts the horse's movement to the side, forcing the horse to walk in a circle. Murmuring soft encouraging noises, Frollo is fully focused on the horse's expression and the tension in its neck.

Dancing around one another again, he slowly lowers his hand, forcing the horse's head down with it.

Keeping the horse moving in a steady circle, he then makes the single most beautiful sound Esmeralda has ever heard. Pursing his thin, cruel lips, he produces a single whistling note, so trilling and pure in its intensity that Esmeralda feels her knees buckle at the sheer force of it. She likens it to the sound of the most beautiful of song birds, lamenting its lack of freedom in its cage.

The horse's ears prick up sharply at that purest of notes and Esmeralda sees a miracle unfold before her eyes.

Buckling at the knees, the trembling young horse slowly bends down and simply folds in on itself, executing a perfect knee fall for its master.

Frollo promptly releases the reins and murmuring softly to the horse, approaches the kneeling horse. Swinging one long leg over the horse's back he mounts it and leans forward with all his weight, still pouring words into the horse's receptive ears.

Their movements still after that. As Esmeralda looks on, the horses laborious breathing slows and the horse relaxes, accepting the weight of its master on its back. They breathe slowly in tandem for the longest time as the sun continues its ascent in the pale morning sky. Warming their weary bodies, shortening their tired shadows.

Esmeralda watches, transfixed, as Frollo slides off the horse in the end. He turns slowly then, making his way back to the stables and to her great concern, her vantage point. It doesn't surprise her that both horses follow him as if an invisible tether binds master and horses together.

As the strange procession makes its way past her hiding place, Esmeralda can't help herself. Clearing her throat, she speaks up.

"One cannot help but wonder, " she drawls, " if you have the same treatment in mind for me." With satisfaction she notes the tensing of his shoulders and the furrowing of his sweaty brow.

"Witch." He acknowledges tersely in her direction. Stepping out of the shadows she searches for an equal word to insult and wound him back, only to land on the simplest of forms.

"Claude."

With satisfaction she watches him flinch and turn away from her. Right in one, she thinks triumphantly and moves to follow his retreating form.

She finds him in the stables, grunting as he carries a heavy wooden bucket from the central well. He douses a rough cloth in the cold water, before emptying the remainder of the bucket in both horses' trough. Both animals drink greedily.

Frollo flings the wet cloth over the horse's shoulder and proceeds to wipe him down, firmly but gently. Esmeralda moves to the other end of the small stall, climbing up to perch on the edge of the enclosure. Content to observe Frollo moving back and forth to tend to his horse.

"What's his name?" She asks at last, curiosity once again gaining the upper hand.

He shoots her a strange look over the horse's shoulder, one eye almost screwed shut.

After a beat he shrugs and replies: "This is Kikkuli. I've had him for over three months now. And jabbing his chin to the beast occupying the next stall: "His name is Bucephalus. Kikkuli is his grandson."

She turns to the old beast then. The horse shoots her a baleful look in return. "Why won't you ride him instead?" She asks.

Frollo sighs at this. Continuing his ministrations, he answers slowly:"Two things. One; he is getting on in years. Soon he will be too old to carry even the slightest of burdens."

He falls silent for a while.

"And two?" She prompts, gaze not wavering from the old horse.

"He was poisoned." He replies softly. Esmeralda's eyes snap back to Frollo's in pure disbelief. She reads the truth in that harsh statement in the way the corners of his eyes crinkle at the edges, as if to ward off the bitter truth.

"Wh-what happened?" Her tone is incredulous and she hears her voice rising. In her mind, hurting an animal ranks right up there with hurting children, or defenseless women. It sets her teeth at edge at the injustice of it all.

His tone is deceptively lofty as he replies: "Oh, it was a subtle poisoning. A small amount of water hemlock in his hay for a period of time."

He has finished cleaning the yearling and is now scrubbing him down vigorously, drying the horse.

He looks up at her again, pain evident in his mercury eyes. For an instant, Esmeralda's heart goes out to him.

"Who would _do_ such a thing?" She asks softly.

Frollo has finished Kikkulu's grooming and now ducks under the horse's neck to join her. He approaches her perch and looks up at her, craning his neck.

"It appears", he murmurs, "That I trusted the wrong gypsy." And holding out his dirty hand, he beckons for her. Before she can control herself, she grasps his thin fingers and he helps her slide gently down from where she is seated. His other hand comes up to steady her, cold fingers curling protectively around her middle.

Questions jumble in her throat, clamoring to get out as she looks into his tired eyes. Her brow knits together in slight indignation. _Why is it that he always blames the gypsies?_

As if reading her thoughts he replies:" I apparently have a history of taking in strays. This.. gypsy _boy_ turned up at my gates five months ago, all bruised and bleeding. Claimed he was beaten up and left to rot by his own kin." He sucks in air through his teeth. "What was I to do? I fed him, clothed him and gave him a place to sleep in my stables. He repaid me by slowly killing my horse."

They stare each other down for a short time. Bucephalus breaks the tension by whinnying and scraping his hoof against the wooden enclosure.

Suddenly realizing whose hand she is still clasping, she promptly drops it like a hot coal. He just sighs and removes his other hand from her side. He steps back, restoring her personal space and equilibrium.

"Before you ask," He continues wearily, "He was caught in the act. My stable master saw him add the poisonous herbs to Bucephalus' feed."

"I had no choice but to act."

He ushers her out of Kikkulu's stall and closes the stall door.

He stands still for a beat, as if debating something internally."Come", he sighs finally, his weariness evident in the very way his shoulders droop. "I will escort you back to your chambers."

He holds his elbow out to her and after hesitating shortly, she slides her hand past his arm to rest in the crook of his arm. If she concentrates she can feel the pulsing of his veins through the sensitive pads of her fingers. _Human after all_.

They walk slowly, abandoning the now sun drenched stables for the dark bowels of the Palace of Justice. With every step, Esmeralda's heart weighs heavier. She looks up at the man walking silently beside her. His face obscured in shadows, giving his countenance an almost skull-like appearance. Still she can feel his eyes resting on her, silently branding her.

"What happened to the boy?" She finally asks, once again failing to reign in that damned curiosity, but fearing the answer at the same time.

The man beside her grumbles at her audacity, her merciless talent for picking at mental scabs.

"I gave him a choice," he states. "Two years in confinement in my dungeons…or the hand that poisoned my horse. He chose the latter."

And in her mind's eye, she sees a sullen young man in the Court of Miracles, doing his best to win Clopin's whimsical favor. Vying for the attention of the Gypsy King. _One handed Yoska_. Disfigurement over imprisonment. Proud young _fool_.

All too soon they stop at her door. Around her the sounds of a household unfolding and beginning its day. Her hand still rests in the crook of his elbow and she can feel his muscles tightening.

"You still haven't answered my question you know." She challenges, meeting his eyes.

He relaxes his elbow and her hand slides from its resting place, arm falling limply to her side. He cocks his head at her, playing dumb for the moment.

She frowns at him, irritated by his sudden silence. To empower her question, she raises her hand and jabs her fingers at his chest, making him take a step back. She pretends not to notice the way her finger pads slide over sweat slicked muscles.

"What question?" He challenges mockingly.

Esmeralda snorts.

"I cannot help but feel a certain kinship with that young of horse of yours," she shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes.

_Where have you been? _ The question lies unbidden.

He leans into her then and her nostrils fill with the scent of sweat, exasperation and over all, healthy adult _male_. It is almost enough to make her step back, but she stands her ground, meeting his burning gaze.

"Why, damsel mine, would you like to be ridden as well?" he croons mockingly into her ear.

An angry choked noise escapes her, before she places both hands on his chest and _shoves hard, _making him grunt and stumble back a few steps. She then bolts for her door and through it, before slamming it hastily. Shutting out her tormentor.

His mocking laughter follows her through the door. Defeated she leans back against the wood, raising both hands to her face. Only to drop her hands in exasperation as the smell of him permeates her senses again.

_Devil_, she curses, gritting her teeth at her humiliation.

But it's a long time before she washes the smell of him off her hands.

_A.N: Bucephalus was Alexander the Great's horse. Legend has it Alexander as a boy saw the wild stallion, and despite its ferocious nature and the advice of his elders, managed to tame the horse. After he claimed that the horse was simply afraid of his own shadow. _

_Kikkulu was an ancient Hittite Horse Master who wrote complete training manuals on horses. _

Reviews and critiques are much loved by the author.


	3. Chapter 3

Slowly the days lengthen and outside temperature increases, the promise of things blooming and unfurling a sharp promise in the air. Esmeralda ventures out into the wide hallways again and explores the many chambers of the Palace of Justice further.

For a building that looks so malicious and foreboding on the outside, Esmeralda is surprised at how alive with people of all walks of life it is on the inside. Meandering through large light hallways, she often encounters people of the streets she knows in passing, more frequent than not accompanied by the Palace's guard. In one instance she almost runs into the baker, his fat face red with indignation as he turns to the gates. Quickly she sidesteps him, but not before she can hear him muttering under his breath at how _unfair this city's justice system is, and he'll show that upstart of a neighboring butcher_. He is followed, at a respectful distance by two guards, their shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. The butcher in question follows shortly thereafter, a content wide grin on his pock-marked face. Doffing his hat to her, he mutters a polite greeting, before he too turns the corner.

Curious as to what the kerfuffle is all about she cranes her neck and sees for the very first time the large doors of the Judicial Courtroom opened wide. Court must have been in session. A few black robed men linger inside, heads bowed together in soft conversation. Another cluster of men sit at the table. The tall judicial court bench stands empty. The day is clearly done.

A young scribe is collecting various pieces of parchment, until a sudden gust of wind thwarts his attempts, sending his stack of parchments flying. He curses colorfully and is promptly rebuked by a portly man wearing the same purple and black judicial cassock as the others. The young man ducks his head and muttering a soft apology, hastens himself to pick up the papers, blushing furiously all the while.

The sound of scraping chairs is heard as the men get up and take their leave. Stepping back slightly in order for them to pass, she finds that Judge Claude Frollo is among them, in full judge regalia. He has his head slightly bowed in order to listen to something the same portly man is now telling him, but his eyes rest on Esmeralda. His chaperon is slightly askew, lending him a slightly rakish air. The same unseen wind bats playfully at his red sash, making it flutter past her head for the shortest moment, caressing the side of her neck. If she were to reach out, she is sure she could tug at it, making him stop in his tracks. As it is, the small procession makes its way past her, some greeting her solemnly. Frollo just minutely inclines his head, his piercing eyes never once leaving hers. The weight of his stare is too much for her and she turns her head, breaking contact.

Esmeralda continues her journey in the other direction, feeling slightly winded. Turning around to look at the men's retreating backs, she silently wills him to turn around, if only for a moment.

He doesn't. Red sash swaying in time with his walk, he apparently gives her no further thought. It leaves Esmeralda feeling strangely bereft.

She begins to spend her afternoons in the Palace's kitchen , soaking up the bustling atmosphere. The cooks and maids are leery of her at first, but seeing as she has no malicious intent, soon warm to her. Esmeralda loves the sounds, smells and sights of this tiny micro cosmos, the way the cooks painstakingly prepare every meal. Every morning, hunters from further afield come plying their wares, and the kitchen tables fill with game birds such as pheasant and partridge. Rabbits and hare are plentiful too, due to it being a mild winter.

One time, they even offer a wild boar. In a flurry of excitement the beast is hauled in. The animal is huge, and all edible parts of it make their way into mouth watering dishes, such as honey glazed roasts, stews and even a bone-warming soup. She applauds the cooks creativity.

She learns that the kitchen even has its own stables, or rather pens, though not filled with horses, but with various chickens, cows and even a fat pig or three. One late afternoon, a clutch of eggs hatches and Esmeralda welcomes a handful of yellow fluffy chicks into the world, under the watchful beady eyes of the distrustful rooster. Another sure harbinger of spring.

From the cloisters of the neighboring monasteries come honey, mead and ale. The wine orchards beyond the city's borders yield barrels of wine, even though the land itself is still grey and still.

She is also surprised at the cornucopia of greens and fruits available to them, even this time of year. Many of which she has never even heard of, let alone tasted. One of the maids, Bernadette, takes her under her wing and patiently answers all her questions about various fruits and vegetables, and where they hail from. Esmeralda is sure though that, even though she listens diligently, she is sure to have forgotten more than half by the time she return to her chambers.

Another favorite spot of her as she finds out, is the Palace's sprawling library. She finds the old chairs there comforting as she sits in the pale sunlight, feet tucked modestly under her, the smell of knowledge and leather in her nostrils. Even though she can't read nor write, she enjoys the heavy feel of books in her hands, and she busies herself with looking through books that have illustrations in them, making up stories for them in her mind. Still, her curiosity is awakened and she finds herself asking if there would be anyone magnanimous enough to sit down with her and teach her how to read, maybe even write. Every now and then, learned men pass her as she sits in her chair, but she finds herself suddenly shy and doesn't ask anyone for help. Who would help her if she did, anyway? So she quietly sits and is lulled in a state of peacefulness by the soft sounds of life around her.

On no particular day she is startled from her careful perusal of what appears to be a history of warfare( the graphic drawings of fallen horses and slain men disturb her greatly) by raised voices outside. Abandoning her book, she makes for the window to look at the ground below.

It is the same courtyard that she has found Frollo and his horses in, that one fateful morning. Now it is filled with soldiers as they parry and thrust, sharpening their sword skills as well as their wit against one another. They have stopped however to stare at the figure making his way determinedly past the courtyard. A figure dressed in his customary gold and blue armor. The stable master stumbles from his perch in blind panic, before grabbing a young boy and hissing something in his ear, sending him scrambling away.

But Esmeralda only has eyes for the regal form of the intruder below.

_Phoebus!_

She turn and flies past her chair, skirts flying, startling the librarians greatly. Shouting her apologies to them she increases her speed, her feet winding down the broad staircase that bleeds into the courtyard hall, heart hammering in her throat. She almost trips, slipping over the unfamiliar soft leather of the boots that Frollo has had her outfitted with.

Esmeralda stops at the bottom of the stairs, looking at the man that has just entered the dim lit hallway. Angry voices are heard in the courtyard behind him, but the man standing inside ignores them all.

Her hand clutches the balustrade hard as she drinks in the sight of her Sun God. He has turned around at the sound of footfalls and after a moment of hesitation, his eyes widen in recognition.

"Phoebus!" she chokes.

He just stands there, as if nailed to the ground. Esmeralda approaches him slowly, eyes locked on his periwinkle blue ones. They are slightly bloodshot, she notices off-handedly, and he looks sad. _Oh Phoebus! _Her hands reach out to him, almost, but not quite touching.

"H- how are you?" Phoebus finally chokes out, muscles in his neck tensing. He swallows hard.

"How is he treating you? A- are you hurt? " he continues.

Esmeralda shakes her head in the negative, still staring at him."No, no, I'm fine," she hastens to reassure him.

He reaches for her then, pulling her into a bone crushing hug. The pommel of his sword bangs awkwardly against her lower ribs and she muffles a grunt of pain.

"I've come to take you away Esmeralda, consequences be damned!" His grip on her tightens. These are the words she has longed to hear and she smiles elatedly, content to be in his arms.

"I've found a place where you could live safely, far away from _him_ and his greedy claws. You would be mine and mine alone!" sunken eyes search for hers. "It's just a small room really, and I could come to visit you sometime, and, oh Esmeralda, we would be happy!" he exclaims, lost in a vision.

Esmeralda just stares at him, as if seeing him for the first time. The smell of cheap wine on sour breath hits her sensitive nose and she realizes that his bloodshot eyes are not the result of a hungry torn heart, but merely a by-effect of the consumption of spirits. As if to underline her findings, Phoebus sways on his feet and steadies himself on her. Slowly her fingers glide down his shiny chest plate to finally rest limply against her own sides.

Mistaking her sudden silence for awe and acquiescence to his schemes, Phoebus continues, spinning her a tale of part-time domestic bliss. He presents her with his idea of the future and expects her to fall for it.

And as his voice rises, so does her temper.

She wrenches herself away from him hard and glares at him, chest heaving in anger.

"You would have me live the life of a kept woman, a…a _concubine_? "She shrieks at him, hands flying.

"But how is that different from the life you lead now? " he counters, eyebrows knotted together in earnest confusion. A glimmer of uncertainty breaks through, before he shakes his head, focusing his gaze on Esmeralda again.

"How is that different?"she shrieks. _"How is that DIFFERENT? How about the lives of my people? How can you not care about them? Don't you remember the bargain I struck?"_

Her eyes tear up and Esmeralda is furious at him, at his sheer stupidity, but foremost at herself for her poor judgment in people.

"You would have me all to yourself, conveniently forgetting the fact that the moment you whisk me away to have your wicked way with me, I break my end of the bargain, and my people once again have to fear _for their lives_?"

In reply, Phoebus does the worst thing possible.

He just _shrugs_.

"I just want you to be mine, Esmeralda, just like you promised!" He pleads, once again reaching for her.

"Don't you remember, Esmeralda?" he whines."You promised yourself to me, and I have come to rescue you!"

At his last statement his chest puffs out and he looks at her as if fully expecting her to fall at his feet in adoration.

Esmeralda's vision swims and she furiously blinks back the rising tears. She wills them not to fall desperately. _Not worth it._ She looks at her first lost love.

"Oh Phoebus!" She sighs, but his name tasted like ashes now, no longer bringing the sense of elation it used to carry before.

"_I really haven't been seeing you, haven't I?"_ she whispers, more to herself.

Phoebus reaches for again, pulling her limp form against his, fingers tightening around her arms painfully. Esmeralda grunts in pain. "We must hurry now, if we want to make it past the rest of the guards!" he speaks urgently, shaking her, _hard_.

Even Esmeralda sees the practical gaps in his plans as she struggles against his much larger form. This drunken fool comes walking in, fully expecting to grab the damsel in distress under the dragon's own nose? Not to mention the dozen guards she can see moving about in the shadows behind him, listening in on every word. How could she have mistaken his happy-go-lucky attitude for what it really was? _Sheer stupidity!_...

Just then, Phoebus lowers his mouth to hers in a last desperate plea, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on her uncooperative lips. His tongue wrestles its way past her teeth and her senses are overwhelmed with the taste of _wrong_.

Dimly Esmeralda hears the sound of more footsteps approaching and she beats her fists against his breast plate in desperation and anger, finally succeeding in wrenching herself away from him.

Frollo is standing at the top of the chairs, nostrils flaring, eyes spitting fire. He is baring his sharp teeth at the tableau beneath him. Next to him the young stable boy stands with his hands resting on his knees, panting loudly, clearly out of breath.

Not breaking his gaze from Phoebus', Frollo pets the boy's head.

"You did well to summon me, young Benedict". He grits out. The boy visibly preens and gives Phoebus a look of pure loathing. Frollo's low voice is like poisoned honey.

In a few steps Frollo barrels down the stairs and closes the distance between them, fully intent on eviscerating his former Captain.

"Claude!.." she calls then, in an attempt to weather the oncoming storm. Frollo wrenches his gaze away from Phoebus. His eyes are wild and she can see the madness shimmering underneath. ( "_Claude?" _Phoebus mutters.)

"It.. it isn't…I didn't.." she stammers in a desperate plea for herself. She searches his wild eyes for a trace of the _human_ beneath.

After a beat his eyes soften minutely and he reaches out for her, pulling her away from the Captain and behind himself. Cold fingers run gently over her arm, exploring the finger shaped bruises already blooming on her skin. At the same time, soldiers have stepped up behind Phoebus, grabbing his arms.

"…I know, Maiden Mine", he replies coarsely.

Phoebus grunts at this and then promptly grins, baring his dirty teeth at the judge. He struggles in his captivators' grip. They only grip him tighter.

"Pro'lly don't know what to _do_ about that little thing anyway, wouldn't you, old man?" he leers, waggling his eyebrows in Esmeralda's direction. " A nice little flower like that doesn't fall into your lap every day, I'll bet!"

Esmeralda just closes her eyes in exasperation, and the tiniest bit of fear.

Somebody is about to die a gruesome death. Opening them again she sees Frollo looming over Phoebus. The captain's grin has faded and he looks rather pale.

_Funny how she never noticed__ how much taller than Phoebus Frollo really is_. The thought bubbles up and she stifles a sound at the timing and sheer absurdness of it.

Frollo looms closer to the mulish captain and his voice is a deadly whisper.

"I could have you hanged for this, you foolish _boy!" _His left hand comes up to grab Phoebus's throat and he _squeezes, _choking the captain. Time slows to a trickle as everybody stands and watches transfixed as Frollo tightens his hold further, slowly denying the Captain oxygen. Frollo's arm shakes but he only increases his pressure. The short hairs on the back of his neck are stuck together with sweat, making his neck look strangely vulnerable, almost boy-like. As Esmeralda watches, a drop of sweat appears from under his chaperon and slowly meanders its way down.

No sounds are heard, other than the sounds of a desperate man struggling for life. Even the birds have fallen silent. The heavy man's knees buckle and Esmeralda swears she can see the light slowly dim behind the captain's bulging eyes. It's almost as if she can see his life force trickling out of him, spilling over Frollo's white fingers, to splash on the pristine floors.

Phoebus turns a rather unattractive shade of blue and he stumbles, spittle flying out of his uncooperative mouth in a desperate bid for air.

Suddenly Esmeralda feels the stable master push past her and grab Frollo by the shoulder, large clumsy hand encasing the older man's tensed shoulder. He bends his head to Frollo's and whispers urgently:" _He's not worth it, sir!_ We saw ev'rything and it was over ere it was begun!"

What does he mean by that? Esmeralda wonders.

It serves to break the tension however and Frollo drops his hand. He does seem to find reason and truth in the horse master's cryptic words however as he steps back suddenly, flexing his hand.

Phoebus drops to his knees completely, almost dragging his guards down with him. His fingers are scratching at his throat, clawing for air. He retches once and promptly is violently ill all over the flagstones. Viscous purple fluid splashes on the floor before Phoebus collapses totally, landing in the puddle of his own sick. He closes his eyes and shudders.

Frollo groans in disgust, teeth bared.

"Have that cleaned up immediately," he orders tersely. Giving her the once over, eyes still wild, he turns away. After a moment he halts.

"And take out the _trash!_" he hisses.

Frollo turns again and then walks away rapidly, sash snapping behind him like an angry viper eager to strike. His angry footsteps reverberate against the stone walls of the corridor. Even the echo sounds furious.

The guards are on Phoebus like a swarm of hungry locusts then. They drag him away kicking and screaming.

The show is clearly at an end and the remaining crowd stands for a while, blinking sheepishly. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, they turn and disperse. None of them seem eager to linger and meet her eyes.

They leave her alone and confused, a stinking puddle on the floor the only evidence of what just occurred. She hears the birds outside start up again tentatively.

Esmeralda closes her eyes and rubs her abused shoulders. Ugly bruises bloom on her flesh and she examines them, hissing in pain as she touches a thumb impression too roughly.

"You should have somebody look after that", a soft voice behind her states.

She turns around.

It's the boy, Benedict. He gazes at her frankly, a blush apparent on his young cheeks. He shuffles his feet, almost stepping in the horrible puddle himself.

He holds out a small dirty hand.

"Come," he says softly, as if coaxing a frightened animal. "I'll take you to Bernadette in the kitchen. She's bound to have some form of ointment you can rub on those bruises. And maybe we can have a taste of her special mulled wine as well!"

He looks so sweet and pure at that moment that Esmeralda simply steps up to him and takes his outstretched warm hand in hers. His palm is slightly sweaty. He squeezes her hand softly in thankful reply and together they make their way to the kitchens, his young voice and light spirit chasing away the ghosts of her afternoon ordeal with its tales of innocence.


	4. Chapter 4

Needless to say, sleep evades Esmeralda for the better part of that night and when it does finally claim her, her dreams are filled with disjointed images and sounds. In her mind's eye she sees a bony hand making its way for her throat, fingers closing around it. But instead of the choking hold she expects and even braces herself for, the hand is surprisingly gentle. She leans her head back, exposing more of her throat, swallowing convulsively against the palm of the hand. Slowly the fingers make their way down her throat, stroking her skin gently. Deeper the questing fingers roam, teasing past her suprasternal notch down into the valley of her breasts, raising goose bumps in their wake.

Stifling a gasp, Esmeralda shoots up in her bed, her fingers clutching wildly at hands that are not there.

The full moon peeks gently through the open curtains of her four poster bed, casting distorted shadows into her room. She knows that sleep will fully elude her now. Sighing to herself, Esmeralda flings back the heavy covers and pushes her legs over the edge of the bed, feet touching the cold flagstones. She shivers and reaches for her night robe, donning it like armour to ward of the chill of the Palace. Opening her door, she peeks into the hallway.

All is quiet. Flickering sconces line the walls , dark shadows dancing in between. A curtain flutters in the draft. Breathing a sigh of relief, Esmeralda makes her way to the only place that will bring her solace, bare feet slapping against flagstones.

Before too long she finds herself at the large entrance door to the kitchen. Hesitating briefly, she puts her hand to the door and pushes gently.

The kitchen is a lot darker at night than she expected. The fire has died down to smouldering embers. One of the younger kitchen maids is sitting on a stool in front of the fire, head on her chest, snoring loudly. She is toppling on her stool precariously, in danger of keeling over completely.

Esmeralda clears her throat gently and the girl shoots up from her stool with such alarming speed that she stumbles completely, nose almost in the dying embers.

"Goodness grief me!" She exclaims, hand at her throat. "You gave me quite a scare you did, Mistress, spooking me like you did! I nearly had 'alf a heart attack!" Her wide eyes take in the state of the fire and she palms her face in agitation. "I was supposed to keep the fire alive, not doze like an old mare in front of the fire!"

She scurries out the door then, returning moments later with her arms filled with chopped firewood. Without further ado she sets herself with the task of rekindling the fire.

All too soon the fire has regained its former glory, bathing the kitchen in a warm yellowish light. Various pots and pans hung from the ceiling reflect the dancing flames. Closing her eyes to slits, Esmeralda moves her head slowly back and forth, staring at the star-like lights reflected by the brass of the pans.

"You couldn't sleep?" The girl turns and gives her a concerned look. Esmeralda shakes her head in the negative. The other girl makes a commiserating sound. "I understand completely," she nods. "You poor thing. You must have had an awful day with all that commotion happenin'! I wouldn't sleep a wink either."

She perks up. "You know what, I'll fix ye a nice mug of hot milk. That will put you to rest alright!"

Without waiting for a reply, the girl busies herself with pans and jugs and before too soon the kitchen fills with the familiar bustle of life that Esmeralda has come to love so much. Closing her eyes in silent thanks, she just lets the sounds wash over her, lulling her into a state of mindless bliss. Mind determinedly not on her disturbing dreamvisions.

The next thing she knows, a steaming jar is set before her and the girl carefully fills a clay mug with hot steaming milk. Esmeralda looks around for something proper to sit on, besides the stool, and failing to locate something suitable, hoists herself simply on the large wooden countertop, legs dangling over the edge.

"Careful now," the kitchen maid admonishes, eyes crinkling. "It's still too hot to drink. Just have a little patience. It will be at perfect drinking temperature soon!" She smiles softly and rubs Esmeralda consolingly on her knee. Esmeralda graces the girl with a smile. "You are entirely too kind." She ducks her head, blowing on her milk. "And to think I woke you up none too gently too…"

The maid just tuts. " Nonsense," she replies. "You did well to wake me. Bernadette would have had my guts for garters if she found me dozing like that!" They both grin at that."Consider this my thanks!" They smile at each other in easy camaraderie.

"I had a feeling I would find you here," a low voice comes unexpectedly from the doorway. Esmeralda starts violently, almost sloshing hot milk over the edge of her mug.

Frollo is leaning in the doorway, taking in the scene before him. He flicks his eyes to the maid.

"Leave us."

The girl straightens her back and scrambles to comply. With an almost apologetic look at Esmeralda she backs out the door dropping in a clumsy curtsey as she passes her master. The door closes with a bang, making Esmeralda flinch.

Clutching her mug protectively in front of her she peeks at Frollo through her eyelashes. He makes a bee line for her, stopping just short in front of her. He is dressed in the same white linen shirt and purple breeches as the morning she found him in the courtyard. For a moment she wishes he'd stuck to his heavy judicial robes instead. That way it would be easier to maintain a status quo. She doesn't know who she dreads interacting with more, the stern, cold judge or this strange unnerving _man _standing before her.

"Trouble sleeping?" He asks. Esmeralda shrugs, focused completely on their relative proximity.

He straightens his back, searching her face. She finally looks up and they lock gazes. They stare each other down for several seconds. The flames of the fire are reflected in his unblinking eyes. Suddenly a log pops in the fireplace and Esmeralda starts. Breaking away from his heavy gaze, she places her mug on the top, playing with the rim absentmindedly.

"What about you?" she replies. _Why aren't you in...bed?_ Frollo moves away from her a little, leaning his hip against the countertop beside her instead. Esmeralda lets out a breath she didn't realise she was holding.

"I had….a letter to compose," he answers carefully. " This took considerably longer than I hoped it would, considering I had to dictate it." He waves his right hand and Esmeralda notices it's bandaged, the swollen knuckles wrapped in crisp white linen.

"What happened?" She asks. "Did you hurt Phoebus?" Her heart constricts painfully.

"No!" Frollo hisses at this, teeth clenched. And amending softly, he adds: "I had a little altercation with a wall…" He flexes his abused hand, grimacing. Then flattening it carefully on the countertop he states slowly:

"Girl, we need to talk."

Frollo casts his eyes around the room. His eyes fall on the abandoned stool near the fire and with a sigh, he pushes away from the countertop. He makes his way to the fireplace, stooping in front of it to throw another log on the fire. The light from the fire turns his chemise see-through for the briefest time and Esmeralda averts her eyes, cheeks ablaze. Turning around again, Frollo picks up the abandoned stool. Placing it in front of her dangling feet he sets himself down gingerly. He looks up at her carefully from his lowered position. It is a strange scene she finds herself in and Esmeralda scrutinizes his bent form.

" Talk." She simply states.

Frollo squeezes both eyes shut briefly.

Opening them again he states: " I owe you an apology." He runs the fingers of his good hand through his silver hair, making the front end stand up. " And I have _no idea_ how to give one to you properly. Forgive me." He is silent for a moment. Then he curses. " _Damnation!_ If I am going to do this, I am damn well going to do it with the aid of some alcohol!" He uncoils from his stool, propelling his long body upwards. In a few steps he reaches the darkened kitchen pantry. He rifles through some cupboards, muttering darkly under his breath. Finally he looks up at a high shelf and smiles crookedly. "So that's where she hides it!" He notes, amusement apparent in his tone.

He stretches himself, reaching upwards. The hem of his chemise rides up with his movement. Slowly, almost tantalizingly the rising hem reveals a taut defined belly, white as a new born baby's skin. A thin black trail of hair starts just under his navel before stretching downwards, disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches. It's almost beckoning tantalizingly, like a treasure line. Something hot and sharp unfurls in her lower stomach, undulating slowly, taking root in her belly. She finds herself wondering where the trail ends. Then she swallows, chagrined at her rampant imagination and sudden dry throat. She busies herself with her milk again in a bid to distract herself.

Frollo appears at her side again, clutching three items to his thin chest. With an audible plonk he places a dusty bottle on the countertop. A goblet follows. The last item, a glass jar, is placed gently next to her hot milk.

"Father Thibault assures me that this is the best honey that the gardens of Notre Dame have produced in years." He explains, fingering the rim. Wincing, he opens the jar. Rummaging through a drawer with his other hand he produces a small spoon and sticks it in the honey. "Go ahead, add some to your milk." He pushes the jar in her direction. " I won't poison you, I promise." He adds, sotto voce.

Esmeralda reaches for the spoon and adds a dollop to her still steaming mug. Stirring gently she fixes her green eyes on the man next to her. Frollo is struggling with the bottle. Hesitating briefly, she frees the bottle from his grasp. Deftly she removes the cork. Gesturing for his goblet, she proceeds to pour an amber liquid into his goblet. Brandy, she decides, judging by the smell.

He takes the goblet from her hand in silent thanks, secretly chagrined at the fact that his clumsy fingers won't cooperate. He sits down on the stool again.

"You promised me an apology." Esmeralda ventures boldly. "I am still waiting".

"…Indeed." He agrees. " You see right through my attempts to procrastinate. Foiled again." He casts his eyes to the kitchen ceiling as if mock- addressing an unknown deity, but there is no humour in his voice.

He inhales the smell coming from his goblet and after a beat drinks from it deeply. " My Horse Master informed me that former Captain de Chateaupers gained entrance to the stables using the excuse that his horse was crippled," he begins. "He brought the horse in with a bad limp. Every fool in this city knows that our stables are the best in Paris, so his choice seemed sound." He pauses to take another sip. " When my stable boys examined the horse, they found that his back heel was bleeding badly on a very specific spot, to maximise bleeding. Almost as if the flesh had been cut deliberately..."

"What?" Esmeralda exclaims. "Phoebus would never hurt Achilles! He loves his horse!"

"No?" Frollo counters. He narrows his eyes. "His ruse worked perfectly however, didn't it? He used _ Achilles_ as an excuse to get in, and also as a distraction, because he knew my men would only have eyes for a _poor hurt horse _".

"He-he wouldn't..."she trails off weakly. When he puts it like that, it sounds almost convincing. And that realisation damn well _hurts_.

Frollo wisely chooses silence as his reply. Even though he is seated lower than she is, he still somehow manages to look down his long nose at her. Reaching for his goblet again, he drains it and reaches for the bottle for a refill.

"Where is Phoebus now?" she asks finally. "And Achilles, how fares he?" she adds.

" De Chateaupers has been a reluctant guest in my dungeons this past evening, sleeping off his...drunken haze," here Frollo gnashes his teeth audibly. "As for his whereabouts at this precise moment," he continues loftily, "I am afraid I don't know. He has been thrown back into the streets without that horse of his, I might add. Only God knows where he is licking his wounds at this precise moment." Frollo crosses his legs. " How...noble of you to still care." He remarks airily. Esmeralda huffs at his obvious sarcasm.

Frollo straightens his back, vertebrae popping audibly. " I wouldn't have gotten a proper conviction anyway," he ruminates. "What would I hold him for?" Frollo's eyes glitter strangely as he adds: " His only real vice is loving you to the point of insanity... I find I cannot blame him for that."

Esmeralda's heart leaps in her throat at that statement. Frollo snaps his jaws shut with an audible snap and in that particular moment Esmeralda realises that he has given himself away inadvertently.

He frowns darkly at her, silently challenging her to say something. She decides that discretion at that moment is the better part of valour. She's not sure she wants to have _that_ out in the open yet. Because venturing down that conversational path with Frollo would mean...No. Nononono. Esmeralda is far from ready to cast her thoughts and emotions in that direction.

She opts for an easier subject instead.

"So then Achilles is still here?"

Frollo sighs loudly at this, a sound almost akin to relief. His shoulders drop "Of course he is still here. You think me such a villain that I would turn an innocent, hurt animal onto the streets?"

"I don't know what to think of you," she counters honestly, more to herself.

Frollo's eyes snap back to hers, stating that he has heard her comment.

_You frighten me in more than one way_, her inner voice whispers inside her head.

"Drink your milk," he orders quietly, mentally filing away her remark.

She complies, if only to give herself a moment to mentally regroup herself. She has a hard time reconciling the brave knight she thought she loved with the desperate drunk that nearly ruined everything. She also finds it hard to rhyme this almost penitent man seated before her with the mad monster she saw unleashed just this afternoon.

The man before her meanwhile scoots his stool a little closer to the countertop she's perched on and reaches for the open jar of honey. Almost cheekily, he dips his little finger in the jar, coating the digits liberally. With a small smirk he brings the appendage to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch the drop that is threatening to fall off. He sucks his finger in slowly, heavy lidded eyes never leaving hers. He hums contentedly around his finger.

"Hmmm, Thibault spoke truthfully," he murmurs around his finger. "This is really quite an extraordinary tasting honey." Wiping his hand against his shirt to clear off excess stickiness, he gestures to the jar. "You really should try some. It has a very subtle underlying flavour beneath its sweet obvious exterior. Almost tangy. Tart." Esmeralda makes a sound in the back of her throat before she realises the last word isn't directed at her. Frollo's upper lip curls up at her almost gaffe, white teeth gleaming. His eyes crinkle at her defensiveness. Then he reaches for the jar again. "Makes you want to come in for another taste." He ruminates." Just to define all those subtle complex flavours. It really isn't what it seems on the outside."

He leers at her openly and makes to dip his little finger in again.

"I know you're not talking about the honey, Frollo," she levels her gaze at him in mild accusation, confused by his sudden playful mood.

"Oh, such a clever little witch," he slurs darkly in reply, fingers hovering over the honey.

That really does it for her then. He goes from earnest to double-edged in a heartbeat, just at the exact moment she thought she might possibly come to... _no_. Esmeralda is tired and fed up. So she picks up the gauntlet. If he wants to have a battle of wits, she'll up the ante.

Grabbing his bony wrist, she applies pressure to his hand, lowering it, dipping his little finger once again in the sticky liquid.

"I think I will have a taste after all."

With her two hands she guides his hand to her mouth, full lips open invitingly. Dimly, beneath the sound of her blood rushing in her ears, she hears the sound of the stool overturning; a loud clatter in the otherwise silent kitchen. Her pink tongue peeks out in an imitation of his, slowly licking the tip of his little finger. She can feel Frollo's arm begin to tremble beneath her hands. Revelling in her new found power, she puckers her mouth and sucks his finger in all the way past the second knuckle. A large part of her is terrified at what she is doing( a voice is screaming loudly inside her head; I cannot believe what I'm doing, this is Frollo'sbloodyfingerIhaveinmymouth_..._).His ruby ring rests sharp and unrelenting against the corner of her mouth as she twirls her tongue around his finger, lost in taste and sensation. He is absolutely spot on about the flavours, she decides fuzzily. She places her flattened tongue against the roughened pads of his finger, enjoying the contrast of the slick sweet honey and the slightly salt tang of his skin. Softly she bites down on the soft spot behind his second knuckle.

Frollo groans, a low animalistic sound that reverberates in her chest. Giving his now clean finger a last parting suck, she pulls his hand slowly away from her mouth with a wet _pop._

Frollo is staring at her, half- standing, half crouching, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. If she thought his eyes reflected the fire before! She know sees that the fire blazes from deep within him, making his eyes seem almost luminescent. She is elated at the fact that _she_ has made him react this way. The unbending, unflappable Judge come undone by her machinations. _Score_.

He has his hand clutched to his chest as if cradling a wounded bird. His jaw clenches and unclenches. Slowly he looms closer, eyes locked on hers. His hot breath puffs on her face. She can smell the brandy on his breath, laced with the smell of honey. Despite the blazing heat in the kitchen she shivers and a high squeak bubbles up and makes its way past her lips.

That sound seems to break the spell and he wrenches himself away from her with an anguished cry. His boots beat against the black and white tiled kitchen floor as he makes his way to the farthest window, movements strangely jerky, his back turned to her.

A complete retreat. In the pale light of the moon she can see him shake.

"You..You!" He cries out desperately, voice cracking. " You will …DESTROY me!" He clenches his right hand into a fist and brings it down on the window sill, hard. He shudders violently directly after as the scabs over his knuckles rupture, fresh blood pooling from the reopened wounds.

He falls silent then, focusing himself, grounding himself on his own pain. Anything to regain his composure. Anything to distract himself from her.

Esmeralda watches his hunched-over form by the window. The moon illuminates his taut still shape. From her vantage point his silver hair, still dishevelled, almost appears blue. With a little imagination his monochrome features could be mistaken for one of Quasimodo's stone companions.

She is still exhilarated about her new found power over him, but a small part of her yearns to close the distance and take away his anguish. Then again, she is curious as to how far she can push him.

She pushes herself off the counter, cautiously making her way to the window. Bare feet slapping against the floor. Slowly she steps forward, counting the black tiles on the floor that still lie between them. She takes care only to step on the black tiles, mentally likening Frollo and her interaction to a real-life chess game with her as the approaching Black Queen, closing in on the White King.

" You would do well," he whispers harshly, sensing her approach, "not to stray within my arm's reach right now."

Esmeralda heeds his warning and stops cold in her tracks. Something wild flutters in her belly again . All of a sudden toying with him doesn't seem so appealing anymore. It's like trying to corner a mad, wounded animal.

So they stand for a long time, both watching the moon, and she allows him to pull the tatters of his self-composure close to himself again. Slowly the tension in his rigid back muscles evaporates and his breathing slows. He lowers his injured hand to his side and Esmeralda is dismayed at the blood that stains the soaked bandages. Blood still trickles slowly from underneath the linen, dripping on the white tile next to his foot. A small purplish puddle has formed, colour distorted in the moonlight. He pays it no heed.

"You should have that hand looked at, Frollo." She whispers in the end, breaking the silence.

" _Frollo_." He repeats slowly, tasting his own name. "You called me by my true name before. Twice, to be exact." He turns around again, eyes flat and shuttered. The mask again firmly in place.

"Once in derision, once in fear," he remembers. "I wonder, what emotion will evoke my name from your lips again?" Esmeralda is confused at this sudden change of subject. It almost seems he is grappling for anything to gain the upper hand again.

She scowls at him. " I hope you're a patient man, _Frollo_". She sniffs derisively, secretly dismayed at his apparent mental recovery. " I would rather call you "Monster", for that is what you are!" She lashes out at him again. A part of her wants to see him undone again.

"I... _am_ a monster", he whispers back harshly. He turns around and takes a swift step forward, and she steps back hastily, her ears still ringing with his earlier warning.

He bows at her mockingly, hands clutching an imaginary doffed hat.

"but know this, Vixen-Mine. I am _your_ monster!".

Silence descends between the two again, thickening in the atmosphere. Esmeralda feels her feet slowly going numb on the cold tiles of the floor and she shuffles back and forth. Silently she debates the merits of Fight versus Flight. After a beat the latter wins out and she turns to flee his presence, head full of conflicting thoughts.

"One more thing, for now, gypsy," comes his calm voice. She stops in her retreat, curious despite herself.

"Allow me to take you to Mass this Sunday."

That takes her by surprise and she turns to him again. She considers this briefly.

"Very well," she relents. "But only if I can see Quasimodo afterwards!"

"Quid pro Quo?" He queries, corner of his mouth moving upwards. "You're beginning to learn!" Frollo has returned to his goblet and he eyes the bottle of brandy speculatively.

" You've got a deal." He nods his head once. He refills his goblet and turns away from her, her presence apparently forgotten.

"Was there anything else?" His tone is haughty.

_Dismissed like a common servant_. Esmeralda has had more than enough and she slips away from his presence, accelerating as she passes the doors. Her nerves and dignity in tatters. She turns the corner rapidly, eager to have as much space between her and that...that demon in the kitchen. But his low voice simply follows her around the same corner, calling out to her one last time.

"I will see you on Sunday, Maiden Mine..."

Esmeralda breaks into a run.


	5. Chapter 5

**Breaking Horses V**

* * *

><p>It is with no small amount of trepidation that Esmeralda allows the servants to dress her for Mass that early Sunday morning. Her hair is twisted up and away from her face, fully exposing her neck and square jaw line. Without the cover of her voluminous hair, Esmeralda feels strangely naked, even though she has never worn more articles of clothing in her entire life.<p>

She draws the line at adding facial paint though. She already _feels_ like a fool, no need to look the part. So she puts her foot down. The servants just nod, bow and politely back out the door. Leaving Esmeralda alone to stare at a complete stranger in the mirror.

Folds of her dress rustling against her bare legs, she makes her way to the front gate. Two soldiers come from behind her and silently accompany her on her long journey. Once, she nearly stumbles due to the uncomfortable weight and bulk of her outfit, but one of the guards just steadies her with minimum fuss and then retracts his hand quickly, as if burned.

It is an overcast day, with a promise of rain or a late snow in the air. One of those early spring days that are really a late remnant of a winter in disguise. A winter that is not quite ready to relinquish its hold. Esmeralda steps outside and shivers, clearly not expecting the sudden cold snap.

Frollo is already there, dressed in black and silver. The only colour that bleeds from his monochromatic outfit is the trademark red sash on his hat, even though the cut of his chaperon is different from the ones she's seen him wear before. Esmeralda has seen him wear clothes other than his Judicial Cassocks, but it still jars her that _that man_ can make any sort of outfit work for him. He is sans flowing robes, but somehow still manages to look foreboding and larger than life. Like a bird of ill omen waiting to swoop in. Coming closer she sees that his hand is still covered in bandages.

He is talking with one of the officers on duty. _Perhaps the new Captain of the Guard, _she muses. She sidles up to them and softly clears her throat. Conversation stops.

Frollo just inclines his head at her, offering her a thin smile, sash snapping in the wind. His eyes take in her appearance, from her dark silver dress ( she matches him perfectly, she suddenly realizes. _Drat!_), to her carefully coiffed hair, at which he narrows his eyes. His heavy boots scrape along the stones. "I think I like your hair better when it's loose," is his verdict.

His hand feels cold when he helps her ascend the first step into his heavily fortified carriage. She nestles herself on the narrow bench, trying to get as far from him as possible. After a moment, Frollo follows, holding the edge of his black and silver chaperon as he folds himself onto the bench opposite her. Their knees briefly rub together and she scoots back further, almost flattening herself on the back wall of the coach. _Noli me tangere._

If Frollo notices her spooked reaction to their close proximity, he wisely chooses not to comment. As it is, he just smiles and whistles softly to himself. For a moment that trilling, quivering note teases past his thin lips and teases its way into her ears. Esmeralda is disgusted to note that despite her best efforts, her body minutely relaxes and her treacherous knees wind up against his bony ones again.

Frollo just hums happily and then raps his knuckles sharply on the side of the carriage. With a jolt they start moving.

* * *

><p>"If it pleases My Lady," comes his low baritone, "I would like to take a small detour. I want to show you something." Her curiosity is piqued and she nods once.<p>

It is really the first time she has been outside the palace since her, well, _non-choice, _and she happily takes in all the sounds and sights of her beloved city, awakening from its slumber. The carriage plods on, the wheels struggling to clear the thick layer of mud, created by thousands of plodding feet and hooves.

They turn right where they should have gone straight on to the Notre Dame, and the clopping of horse hooves on stone tell her they are crossing the bridge over the river Seine. The river itself stretches itself lazily along the blackened banks of the city, a pale ribbon of water reflecting the clouded sky, like a lazy slithering serpent. Silver on silver.

Before too long the carriage comes to a stop and Esmeralda cautiously looks out the small window. Blackened ruins meet her gaze. Through the carcass of one of the buildings, she can see the broken wing of the mill stretching out towards the bleak sky, like broken bones sticking out of the dirty clay. The smell of burnt debris reaches her nostrils.

"You've taken me to see the _fruits of your labour_?" She hisses at the minister. "Are you proud of yourself, now that you've burned half of Paris down?" At this Frollo scowls darkly. He opens the carriage door and without waiting for her to make room for him, slides half over her and out of the cramped coach. For a moment, the smell of him teases its way into her nostrils, driving out the smell of ashes. He smells like rain, incense and a faint hint of leather-bound books. She huffs loudly, hoping to blow away the scent. _Rather the scent of burnt wreckage_. Then she scoots to the exit and hops down as well.

" I know you were there when I burned this mill down, you know." Frollo states, his back to her. Despite his simple words the message hits her like a sledge-hammer and for a moment she just stares at his rigid back, mouth opening and closing like a fish caught on dry land. The wind has picked up and the red sash snaps in the wind, coiling and uncoiling around his grey head. He surveys the blackened area. "You and that _goat_ of yours." He turns to her, piercing her with his eyes. "I could feel the weight of those eyes on me." He steps closer, his bulk now shielding her from the biting wind. She looks up at him, brow furrowed. " You had the power to stop me there and then, and yet you did _nothing."_

She lashes out at him then, her brown fist landing on his chest. "Don't you _dare_ make this about _me!_ Don't you _dare _pass this off as my fault!" She pummels his chest once more, for good measure. Then she angles her hand up, opening it, going for his thin cheek. A lovely red handprint would be benefit his Majesty greatly in her opinion, she fumes.

Frollo's thin fingers snap up and close around her fist, before she can strike him. His thumb rubs circles on her rigid fingers and she relaxes the muscles in her hand.

Betrayed by her own body, _again._

Disgusting.

"I urge you to look at this part of the city, Esmeralda. " She shivers, uncomfortable with the way her name rolls easily off his wicked tongue. _"Look closer!"_ he repeats.

Giving herself something other than Frollo to focus on, she complies and takes in the site of destruction before her.

* * *

><p>At first the fire seems to have devoured everything in its path, at random. Blackened stumps of buildings have crumbled between taller ones that have, apparently miraculously survived the Inferno intact. But as she looks closer, she can see a pattern rise up through the destruction. Where she knew old, dilapidated housed once stood, now only ash remains. The newer, brick and stone houses remain standing, almost relieved at the sudden breathing space the fire has allowed them.<p>

"Do you remember the Great Plague, sixteen years ago?" He checks himself and shakes his head. "Of course not, where you even born then? " He sucks the air in through his teeth and for a second a teasing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but the wind turns again and steals the unfamiliar expression from his face, leaving his face blank once more. At her furrow of annoyance ( she is older than he makes her out to be, _thank you very much_, not that she'll tell him that), he continues: "Anyway, over thirty thousand people in Paris alone lost their lives during that epidemic. Nearly _one-third_ of the housing in this city lost its inhabitants when the worst was done." He sighs briefly. "Those were often the unkempt houses of the poor. Soon, the houses fell in even worse disrepair, hindering the growth of the city and presenting an even bigger _fire-hazard_."

Esmeralda's eyes bulge as she finally takes in the sheer scope of the genius of the madman before her. His next words drive that point home finally.

"Everything was _controlled_, Girl-Mine." His voice comes, almost soothing and placating. Cajoling her to_ see. "_A plan had been crafted, and with you as the catalyst, I had the perfect excuse to, right under the city's council's nose no less, eradicate and cleanse a large part of the inner City."

"Now," he says, sweeping his arms over the bleak barren landscape, "now, we have space. Space to build new, better buildings for the people of Paris."

She looks at him, really looks at this man gesturing broadly before her. For an instant he reminds her of Clopin performing with his puppets. Indeed, she thinks, Minister Frollo is the _Master-Puppeteer_.

_This is the man that burned Paris...for you..._That inner voice again.

_Or did he?_

How come a small part of her is hurt by his revelation? How come a small part of her relished and even thrived on the fact that she pushed a man far enough to go on a mad, blazing rampage? How come a small, festering part of her is disappointed that she is relegated to a "_means to an end"?"_

"So, where do I fit in, in this grand scheme of yours?" she asks breathlessly. "Do I continue to be _"Your Excuse"_? "

Her voice rises against the howling wind and she startles herself with the sheer shrillness of it. God, she sounds like a common fish-wife. As if agreeing with her, one of the horses that pull their carriage neighs disparagingly, startled by the sudden sound.

Frollo's eyebrows nearly climb into his hairline at her question. "_Nononono_, Maiden-Mine, you misconstrue my words." The fingers of his right hand come up to rest under her chin, bandages chafing gently against her sensitive skin. Frollo tilts her face up to meet his eyes, the corners of his eyes crinkling minutely. " Never, _ever, _doubt my intentions for you... For _us_." He corrects himself with a crooked smile. His eyes take on a peculiar sheen and he turns away from her.

After a moment he walks back to the waiting carriage and holds his damaged hand out for her to take.

Esmeralda just waits him out, not quite done with that particular subject. Sensing her stall, he turns.

"What _are _your intentions towards me, Minister Frollo?"

There.

There is a big bull between them and Esmeralda has just taken it by the proverbial horns.

Frollo just calmly asserts her. He opens and closes his mouth, as if tasting several possible replies. Then he asks her simply: "Esmeralda. Do you even have a last name?"

She just shakes her head in the negative. Before she can open her mouth to retort however, he bends towards her, and with strangely glittering eyes continues:

"It doesn't matter. I'm feeling generous."

And softer, but equally deadly: "_Have mine."_

Silence. The wind bats at the red sash again and it turns and snaps in the wind. They both ignore it however, lost as they are in their each other's gazes.

Finally Frollo breaks the tension. "Come." His fingers close around hers again, tentatively, as if they are made of spun glass. " We must not be late." His hand is warmer on hers now as he helps her back into the relative darkness of the carriage. With a resigned sigh she sits down again, and he folds himself opposite her again, a little closer to each other than before. Those two small words still buzz around in her head, like a swarm of angry bees. His fingers still grip her hand.

"_Have mine." _

As proposals go it's certainly not the scenario she has envisioned when she was younger. 

_Haveminehaveminehavemine_

Feeling angry and confused, she grapples for the first thing that comes to mind, which happens to be their continued proximity and her hand that still rests in his grip.

"Whatever happened to _Never Straying Within Your Arms Reach?_ " she challenges, secretly dismayed at his apparent comfort in touching her. Frollo just smirks and massages the fleshy mound of her palm briefly. "That rule _still stands_, Temptress-Mine. Don't give me any ideas."

He sits back again and after a moment of silence, he starts whistling again, a mocking little tune.

* * *

><p>"You know, " Esmeralda interrupts the silence, "It has occurred to me that you have a fairly monotonous method of dealing with things or <em>people <em>as it may be, that annoy you." Frollo looks up at her, eyes narrowed. It's clear he doesn't care for her petulant tone of voice, or the sudden chill inside the carriage.

"I think you have an unhealthy obsession with fire." she states and promptly snorts at her own levity. "You don't care for the city? Burn her! You don't care for the girl? _Burn her."_ She leans into him, enjoying the upper hand. "You have a _strange_ way of wooing women, Judge Frollo. "And an equally peculiar way of proposing." Esmeralda scowls at him. "Or did my ears deceive me just now? What if I respectfully decline? Am I going to wind up on the next bonfire for antagonizing you, _again_?" She chuckles hoarsely, amazed at her own audacity.

He does have it coming though. That man and his obsessions.

"Remember that, _my would-be fiancé_?"Esmeralda is working herself into a nice snit and her voice rises again, easily carrying outside their carriage and amusing the eavesdroppers that ride beside the carriage to no end. "That nasty little episode between you, me and a pile of burning timber?"

Then she stares at him, nostrils flaring. Finally she collects herself and yanks her hand out of his. He lets go without protest.

Frollo's mouth puckers in thought, but then his lips part, and he _grins_ at her, a cold shark-like feral smile that does nothing to assuage the tendril of fear that suddenly rises in her belly.

"My dear, dear, _dear _girl." Now _he_ leans forward, easily claiming back the small space she occupied in her bid to taunt him. He lowers his voice and she has to tilt her head to hear him.

"Cast your memory back to that fateful day."

It's not hard to do when her dreams transport her there every night. The rough bark of the wooden pile against her naked feet, and the pungent smell of smoke in her nose, she's easily transported back there again. Struggling against her bonds. Watching him through the haze of heat, grinning at her like the madman she know him to be.

His voice cuts through her memory and she shudders.

"What do you see in front of you, Gypsy- Mine?"

What does he mean by that? There's just fire. And smoke. And heat licking at her feet. And the hissing of the fire in her ears, blocking out all other sound and thought.

"I...I ,"she mutters, shaking her head.

"What do you _see_ in front of you, girl!"He grits out. "Look!"

But it's just the hissing of the wood and the slippery wetness beneath her feet. She struggles to stay on her feet, still tugging on the wet ropes.

"Hellfire, Esmeralda!"Now he is close to her, hands clasping her biceps. He gives her a shake and her head lolls back and fro. Her teeth click together, but she doesn't notice, as she is still lost in her personal inferno.

Suddenly something clicks in her mind and a stupid simple word pops out at her, through the fire and the haze and the confusion.

"Wet?" she whispers stupidly.

Frollo forcibly exhales, a gust of hot breath on her face. _Parsley and mint._

"Yes."

Esmeralda opens her eyes, meeting his grey ones in utter disbelief. He just looks back at her, almost into her, for once the mental shutters completely down. Calmly he returns her stare. Calmly he lets her adjust to the sheer scope of his machinations.

If her mind was a jumble before, now Esmeralda reels. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, in that moment she personifies a scared and angry filly, rearing on its hind legs, caught in that instant between Flight or Fight.

"I...I can't believe you! _I simply can't believe you!"_ Her eyes widen more and she shivers violently. Frollo's fingers tighten around her arms, fingers curling to brace her fully. Without knowing it, she leans her complete weight into him.

"You rigged the pyre! "she chokes, grappling with the truth. "Those buckets... water...next to the pyre! "

And then she levels her gaze with his. Hurt. Angry. Confused.

"_You tricked me!"_

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: Whew! Bombs away! We finally learn how far Frollo will go to get things his way. But we're about to meet somebody who will throw a very unexpected spanner in the works! <em>

_Please review. This baby is definitely eating up a lot of my time and it is so rewarding to see that people take the time to leave you a review, even if only a few words. It makes my day.  
><em>


	6. Chapter 6

**Breaking Horses VI**

_Deadlock:__A state of inaction or neutralization resulting from the opposition of equally powerful, uncompromising persons or factions._

Esmeralda has never before known that the simple motion of drawing air into her lungs can actually _hurt._ She stares at Frollo, and Frollo stares back at her. Dimly she notes that her hands have come up to his chest (_To ward him off? To claw at him?_) and her fingers are digging into his velvet tunic. She tightens her fingers further, fisting her hands in the fabric. The expensive garment wrinkles in her white-knuckled grip and, after a beat, an expression of _pain _blooms on Frollo's thin, drawn face. Esmeralda realizes that she is probably pulling on the dark chest hairs that lie hidden beneath his clothes, but strangely enough her empathic feelings appear to have taken a leave of absence. With tears still threatening to leak from her eyes, she looks at him again.

_Let me go._

The words sting her throat and curdle on her tongue, yet they somehow fail to make their way past her lips.

_Stop lying to me._

Frollo has gone very still opposite her. Her fingers are still clawing at his chest and even though his face is pinched, he allows this abuse of his person.

_You lied to me!_ She flexes her fingers, _hard_, and feels the velvet giving a little. Tearing through cloth? Or ripping out fine hairs?

_How can I ever trust you if your truth is as flexible as you make it out to be?_

These are the words she wants to hurl at his face. But they won't come. Her throat is closed off by something so large, it threatens to block not only her speech, but also her breathing. Pushing her dry tongue against the roof of her mouth, Esmeralda discovers that the thing wedged in her throat tastes an awful lot like betrayal.

But why on earth would she allow herself to feel betrayed by a man like him? When has he burrowed his way under her skin? Why would knowing the full truth have this impact on her?

By God and the Heavens, why does it _hurt so much?_

As if sensing her inner thoughts, Frollo suddenly scoots forward and slides off his bench, landing on his knees between the many folds of her cumbersome dress. The sudden movement startles Esmeralda and she flinches. Which makes the man in front of her wince again.

The position could be construed as a sexual overture, were it not for the fact that his expression is one of consternation, not of want. His hands come up to the back of her neck and he pulls her into his chest, encasing her. Her vision blurs and finally blackens as her face is drawn into his black velvet embrace. He leans against her with his complete weight and the position demands she lean back into him, lest they end up sprawled all over her back seat (and what a sight they would present to the world if they did). Her ear is pressed against his chest and after a moment she hears his heart, beating hard and fast.

His voice reaches her ear. No rumbling baritone. No low mesmerizing tone meant to intimidate or soothe. The voice that reaches her ear is hesitant. It cracks on the vowels.

"If my words fail, Esmeralda," he croaks (_oh, he sounds like a teenage boy_), "Will you please…" he draws her in, a full lover's embrace, "…Please listen to what my heart says instead?"

No man has ever been this close to her. The shell of her ear flattened against Frollo's chest, she listens. His breathing is harsh and his chest is heaving, but beneath it all, his heart beats on. If anything, his heartbeat _increases_, a wild staccato. Like the hooves of an angry wild horse beating against the ground, eager to escape. It's almost as if his heart wants to beat its way out of its confining chest, only to be closer to her.

It's all such a mess.

With this man, nothing is what it seems. Nothing ever will be.

_Deadlock._

* * *

><p>A hesitant knock.<p>

Not his heartbeat this time.

A voice cuts through their impasse.

"Minister?" _A voice from the outside world_.

"We've arrived." Under her cheek she feels Frollo's muscles shift, his heartbeat already slowing. Control seeps back into him. The _man_ melts out from under her arms (_And when have those wrapped themselves around his neck anyway?_ she wonders. _Traitorous appendages._) only to be replaced by the Master Puppeteer. The calculating monster. The hands that help her upright are cool again, business-like. Like a leaf on a tree, flipping in the wind, Judge Claude Frollo appears again and the man she just clung to retreats in the darkness behind his eyes.

Frollo rubs a hand over his chest gingerly, an unfamiliar expression on his face.

"We must not be late. As it is, we're likely to make a spectacle of ourselves."

Frollo's low, controlled voice is back. She looks at him, her hands having fallen aimlessly at her side. The morning is not even half over and already she longs for the relative safety of her chambers, the cool linens of her bed against her cheek. More than anything, she wants to be left alone with her thoughts.

Frollo smoothes his wrinkled tunic out as best he can, smirking at her. He can't resist teasing her.

"Luckily people will think you can't get enough of me, with my state of _dishabille_." At her angry choked noise he tuts disparagingly.

The carriage door opens and Esmeralda finds herself once more in front of that most majestic of Gothic buildings, the Notre Dame of Paris. As if in greeting (and she wouldn't put it past Quasimodo and his eagle eyes), the big bells of the West tower begin to toll, heralding the morning Mass. Beneath the low, almost mournful peal of the summoning bell, she hears a teasing lighter bell sing merrily. It's an erratic sound, as Quasimodo has to keep up the even beat of the larger bell, but still the lighter bell chimes in, like a dancer flitting from sunbeam to sunbeam. She can almost imagine her sweet misshapen friend up in the belfry, hanging from ropes as he works his bells, stifling his laughter as he sneaks in the happy sound beneath the sombre, mournful Sunday peals.

Beside her, Frollo curses colourfully, lengthening his stride. Taking the thirteen steps in front of the cathedral two at a time, Esmeralda struggles to catch up with his impossibly long legs. He stops, just before the already closed door (_drat!)_ and turns to her.

"One more thing." Even Frollo sounds slightly winded. _Serves him right._ "I have my own assigned seat near the altar, carved by my father's father behind." He sighs. Not comprehending his remark, Esmeralda stares at him stupidly. "_Nobility._" He explains, pointing at himself. "Rank has its privileges, apparently, even if you are _born_ into it."

That means she gets a bit of relief! She gets to sit between the people she belongs with, the _commoners_. She can hide in the nameless crowd and pretend for a blissful hour or two that her whole life isn't a mess and nothing is real anymore. She can forget that she can trust nobody. She can pretend to be an actress in the tragedy of her own bargained-for life. _Thank Heaven for small favours._

Frollo's new captain of the guard opens the large wooden door. As if by magic, the bells of Notre Dame stop tolling and silence descends on the cathedral, as everyone seated and standing turns around simultaneously to gawk at the late-comers in the doorway.

Frollo gathers his tattered dignity around him like a black thundercloud and sniffs haughtily. He nudges Esmeralda inside with the corner of a bony hip. Startled, she moves forward and they stride down the black-and-white chequered aisle together in a complete mockery of a wedding procession.

_Here comes the bride. _

Somewhere behind her, she hears people whisper. A snicker comes from her right. Frollo's ears redden and he straightens his back. Clasping her elbow gently he leads her to one of the front rows. He stops to glare at the people already seated in the pew. As one person, they scramble and move to the left, opening a seat for her to sit down in. He seats her gently, and with a final glower in the direction of the people in her row, departs to his own place. As he seats himself in a high, ornate carved chair, he nods briefly to the men seated in his row.

As if his nod is the cue, the side door of the missionary opens and the Archdeacon of Josas enters, followed by a half-dozen priests and altar boys. The procession makes its way to the centre of the cathedral, leaving clouds of incense in its wake. Esmeralda inhales deeply. And sighs unhappily.

Above her head, an unseen choir of boys start chanting and Mass commences.

* * *

><p>Saying a lot of the service goes over Esmeralda's confused head would be stating the obvious.<p>

She doesn't understand the Latin, nor does she see the logic behind the structure of the Mass. As it is, her mind is a jumble. A swarm of bees has taken up residence in her mind and her thoughts are buzzing in her head angrily.

She has been to church before, but never seated like this. Her memory stretches back as she remembers past services were she huddled in the winter with her fellow gypsies in the ambulatory, thankful to have a roof over their heads in the dead of winter. Clopin mimicking the serious tones of the priests whilst pulling faces, earning him the chuckles of the younger children.

With her eyes fixed firmly on the black-and-white tiling beneath her feet, her mind wanders.

And if her vision blurs occasionally, making the tiles dance and bleed together in her vision, she pays it no mind.

* * *

><p><em>Kyrie Eleison.<em>

Seated beside the noblemen of Paris, Frollo bows his head in submission. He wants to pray. He wants to clear his mind. He wants a moment of peace and tranquillity.

_"God, have mercy on me, a sinner…"_

He deserves this. A moment of silence. A moment of humility. A moment to pay homage to his Lord and Creator. But try as he might, the harder he wants to pray to his Lord, the more he finds he is worshiping at the altar of _Beatae Esmeralda _instead.

It makes him angry.

Seated beside the noblemen of Paris, to Esmeralda's overworked imagination, Frollo seems as out of place between the fat, loose-skinned, inbred men as a sleek black wolf languishing in a chicken coop. With feathers stuck between his bloody teeth and an air of innocence (_Who? Me? Noooo, I didn't eat those juicy chickens. You must have me mistaken for someone else…)_

Her snicker at the conjured image makes the pock-marked woman beside her clear her throat in irritation. Again. Esmeralda turns to the woman and raises an eyebrow at the crone. The woman leans away from her, as if touching Esmeralda will infect her with something horrendous. Satisfied, she turns back to the front, missing the flinch of the woman.

From her vantage point she has a good view of the higher echelon of Parisian society. She continues observing her silver-haired tormentor. He has his head bowed (_Some humility suits him,_ she thinks offhandedly). The sun peeks out from behind a cloud at that very moment and the rays project the colours of the stained glass windows on the row of noblemen. Spots of colour dance on Frollo's face and hair (_Is that immaculate conception on your cheek?_ her inner Clopin pipes up laughingly). In the coloured light, his eyelashes flutter, little rainbows in their own right. It's almost a divine sight, this tall, slender man seated among lesser men. Then he looks up and straight at her.

The strange light turns his grey eyes almost transparent. As if he can see all the way into her soul, his eyes burn into hers. Then, slowly, he lowers his eyelids.

And _winks_ at her.

The devil breaks through again, shattering the glamour.

* * *

><p>Finally.<p>

The chant of _Benedicamus Domino, _followed by the _Deo Gratias _heralds the end of Mass and Frollo stretches his long legs. A vertebrae pops and he winces. As privileged as a special seat in Notre Dame may be, it clearly wasn't designed to be comfortable, not with his own carved coat of arms digging into his back. _Remember from whence you came, boy. _

It's always fascinating to see how quickly the building empties after Mass. Almost as if people are eager to escape the grace and company of God. _Heretics. Fools._ _Flee back to your life of sin. I'll be watching you. I'll be judging you, so help me God. _

He rises, eager to make his way back to his girl. Making his way through the crowd he is waylaid by some of his fellow magistrates (How do you do, Your Honor? _Get bent, blithering sycophant. _Very well_, _thank you very much.) and a gaggle of barefoot choirboys, already laughing and tugging off their ceremonial tunics. A round-faced priest scurries after them, telling them off in rolling Latin. The boys quieten immediately and continue on, chastised.

"Father Thibault."

Frollo nods at the harassed looking priest. Father Thibault stops in his tracks and turns to the judge, a smile on his full lips. Blue eyes twinkle warmly in a pink, kind face.

"Hello, old friend." The priest steps closer and squeezes the taller man affectionately on the shoulder. "I haven't seen you in a while, Claude. Lost your way, have you?"

Frollo snorts. "Hardly."

"No? I heard stories you had developed a liking for pagan customs." Father Thibault's tone is teasing but his eyes are serious. As one they turn to where Esmeralda is standing, slowly swirling her dress around her booted ankles, neck craned to look at the massive ceiling.

"Oh, Claude, how _could _you?" Thibault's accusing tone cuts through and Frollo looks at his childhood friend, startled.

"I…I haven't touched her, if that's what you mean," he hears himself defending, secretly appalled at the sudden hot rush of guilt bubbling up his spine. _Et tibit, pater?_

His cheeks colour and he looks to where Esmeralda is still standing.

_"She's the one,_ Thibault," he whispers, well aware of how far a whisper can travel with the right acoustics. Thibault's questioning gaze flits from Frollo to the strange, out-of-place dark girl and in that moment his heart clenches for both the strange girl and his friend.

"Well," the priest says, in a bid to cut through the tension. "Are you going to introduce us?"

Before Frollo can reply, another voice cuts in, angrily.

_"Frollo!"_

The Archdeacon of Josas is making his way to the two men. His face is dark and unreadable.

"I would have _a word_ with you." His tone is commanding and both the judge and his clerical companion flinch in unison, one in guilt and the other in compassion.

Without waiting for a reply, the Archdeacon stalks off. Frollo's shoulder stoops before he turns to follow, like a chastised schoolboy. Casting a last longing glance towards Esmeralda, he murmurs: "Will you take care of her and see that she gets to Quasimodo safely?"

Thibault squeezes his bicep in silent affirmation.

The blond priest shakes his head sadly as he watches his friend follow the Archdeacon with as much dragging of his feet as a grown man can allow himself.

* * *

><p>"Sit."<p>

The command is executed before Claude Frollo can even think to object and he finds himself in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs in front of the Archdeacon's large ornate desk. Frollo scowls at his knee-jerk reaction, but it's one born of habit. This is a man who has acted as more of a father than his own ever did. Even though the Archdeacon is now well into his seventies, he still cuts an imposing figure. Frollo looks around while the Archdeacon is helped out of his ceremonial garb. It's a large, almost ethereal room he finds himself in, much at odds with the squat, down-to-earth man he knows the Archdeacon to be. Bookcases line the wall. A couple of high, narrow windows allow the pale winter light to filter through, making dust motes dance in the air.

On a smaller table to the side rests a chessboard, the game in progress. Several black and white pieces rest on the side, already conquered. Neatly they stand, silently cheering on their active brethren. Frollo gives the pieces still standing a cursory glance. He knows the position by heart, seeing as an exact copy of the board is set up in his personal chambers.

A large decanter filled with red wine stands on one corner of the desk, ready to be served. The Archdeacon is a man of habit. Pun intended.

"Maximilian..." Frollo's tone is hesitant, but he is immediately cut off by the older man. "Don't you 'Maximilian' me, _boy_." One of his large, square hands come up to bat at the servant working on the fastenings of his elaborate robes. "Hurry it up, will you?" he hisses at the boy. Frollo's scowl darkens and he fights the impulse to cross his arms. A faint headache blooms in his skull, almost as if a band is tightening around his head. A drink. And hiding under his bedcovers. _That's _what he should have had on the program for today. But that's exactly what he _has _done for the past few weeks. So he needs to face the proverbial music. He grits his teeth. And waits the Archdeacon out.

"Finally!" Father Maximilian shrugs out of his imprisoning robes like an agitated badger coming out of its sett, and after giving them a last vindictive kick (the servant scrambles nimbly out of the way, groping for the discarded clothes on his way out) makes for his desk. The door closes with a bang. Frollo groans as his headache increases at the hard sound.

The chair scrapes loudly on the stone floor and Frollo closes his eyes. A drink would be warmly welcomed, as a matter of fact.

As if sensing his thoughts, Maximilian fills two goblets with wine and thrusts one in the Minister's direction.

"I need a drink, and you look as if you could use the barrel!" Frollo accepts the drink and attempts to sink a little deeper into his uncomfortable chair. The priest drinks deeply. Then he slams the empty goblet back on his desk. Pain spikes through Frollo's head and his stomach turns.

"WHAT were you thinking!" Maximilian's hoarse, angry bellow finally erupts across the room. "Have you any idea what they call you behind your back, _Minister Frollo?" _Frollo stiffens. He makes to interject, but Maximilian is clearly only warming up.

"Pray tell, esteemed Judge, what do you plan to do with her, now that you've abducted her? Is she to be your chattel? Your plaything? Your personal _whore_?"

Frollo leaps out of his chair, towering over the angry Archdeacon. Up close he can see the angry man's cheeks reddening. "She. Is. Not. My_. Whore!" _Spittle lands on the priest's yowl and Frollo has the cheap satisfaction of watching Father Maximilian flinch. "For once, _once!_ in my life, I want something for my own, damn you!" He clenches and unclenches his fists angrily, longing to pick up the decanter and smashing it against the wall.

Then he turns and stalks to the window in a bid to control his temper.

"I _will_ marry her, Maximilian." Here he falters, pinching the bridge of his nose. His headache has evolved into a migraine and Frollo feels weak. Hollow.

"I want to do the right thing. We have some..._issues_ to resolve and then she will be my wife." Frollo straightens his back, clearly pleased with the way those words have come out.

"I was hoping you were going to say that." The reply is soft, but at once Frollo is on full alert, a nervous energy pumping adrenaline into his system.

"Somebody needs to step in and stop this madness, Minister Frollo." Maximilian sighs. "That is why I have sent out a decree to all churches and monasteries in the French kingdom."

"Simply put, I have forbidden any and all priests from allowing you to bind and bless this _unholy union_ you have planned."

Frollo's half empty goblet falls from numb fingers and lands with a clang on the tiles where it spills its red fluid.

"You can't do that to me!"

"I already have, Claude." For a moment, the Archdeacon of Josas looks faintly apologetic. "_It is done."_

The portly priest heaves himself out of his seat and makes his way to the chessboard. He contemplates the pieces briefly. Silence descends. Frollo struggles to get his breathing back under control. His left boot is standing in the spreading puddle of wine, but he pays it no heed. He just watches the Archdeacon's broad back incredulously.

After a moment of hesitation, Father Maximilian's fingers close around his remaining black bishop. He moves the bishop towards the white king. This long game is about to come to an end.

"Check, Claude."

Aware of the double meaning of his words he adds softly:

_"Your white king is in peril."_

* * *

><p><em>A right spanner in the works for our dear Minister! What do you think?<em>

_Please review, even if only to say "Ok", or "Hey, I see you typed more nonsense". This chapter killed me, and there's some heave stuff ahead for our reluctant twosome!  
><em>


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